


Wrong Number, Darlin'

by Catsitta



Series: Assorted Oneshots [9]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mobtale (Undertale), F/M, Female Reader, Gift Fic, Humor, Mobtale Sans - Freeform, Modern Mobtale, Reader-Insert, Wrong number, call center, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:37:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsitta/pseuds/Catsitta
Summary: You work for a call center. And you’re pretty sure you just cold called a mob boss.Oneshot | Mobtale!Sans/Reader | Female Reader
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Series: Assorted Oneshots [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1413808
Comments: 23
Kudos: 328





	Wrong Number, Darlin'

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a convo on discord about this [post](https://prismatic-bell.tumblr.com/post/102141511926/heres-the-thing-though-i-used-to-work-for-a) on Tumblr. It was decided that the scenario fit a modern!mobtale!sans, and in a fit of midnight oil burning, we have this fic! A spontaneous christmas gift of sorts~

“We would like to invite you to—”

Click.

“—it is very important to us…”

Click.

“—values—”

Click.

You made a note in the system. Like always, cold calling was a hit-or-miss (mostly miss) system, and honestly the worst part of your job. Quotas sucked. But you could do it if it meant keeping food on the table and the lights on. There were worse ways to earn a living, and compared to what else was in the area, it paid better than most no experience needed gigs. All around phones rang, your coworkers making the same spiel as you, hoping that one of those numbers called would result in a modicum of interest. Learning their names was a pointless endeavor. Most folks didn’t stick around longer than a couple months if they could help it, and the company went through a string of bad hires recently that hardly lasted a couple weeks.

One guy was caught stealing office supplies. Which was rather sad given that it wasn’t even a keyboard that he shoved up his shirt, but the cheap, yellow notepads you could buy at the dollar store with paper so thin you could erase a hole right through it.

Aside from the occasional gossipy drama you overheard from you supervisor, work was repetitive and generally an unnoteworthy slog. You crossed your fingers every evening when you escaped that this nursing degree was worth it in the end. 

With a sigh, you returned to your queue. 

Slacking off would only result in a reprimand and talk of points on your record. Who kept track of these magical misbehavior points, you weren’t sure, but all the managers talked about them. 

The phone dialed and you adjusted in your chair, leg tapping in a familiar, restless rhythm. You listened to the automatic message play that informed the customer that a real person was on the line with them, and when the line didn’t cut, you began your speil, putting in all the happy, sale-person pep you could carve from your cold, deadened soul. (You really, really needed out of here, but you also really, really liked to eat every day too.) 

“how do ya have this number?” The voice was low and masculine with a slight accent coloring his words. 

Your little monologue stuttered, not expecting that particular question, “Uh.” Real smooth. “It’s part of a—” 

“—you shouldn’t be able to call this number.”

“I’m sorry, your number was called randomly by our system.”

“heh. really now?”

“Yessir.”

“tell me darlin’, do ya know who you’se takin’ too?” There was the tiniest hint of amusement mixed with menace. You didn’t even need to see the man to know he was somebody who was either big, important and dangerous...or thought he was. Either way, you weren’t exactly eager to spend more time trying to pitch a speech to someone who obviously wasn’t interested in unsolicited phone calls. “nah, ya don’t, do ya?”

“No sir,” you wanted to disconnect the call. Why hadn’t you disconnected the call?

“whelp, looks like there’s some clean up to do.”

Clean...up?

“been a real nice chat,” he drawled, your name tacked on at the end as a reminder that whoever this was had the unfortunate advantage of you introducing yourself from the very start. With that, the connection went dead. You shivered. It felt like bugs were crawling under your skin. It was nothing, you assured yourself. Nothing at all. You would take his name off the list, maybe he would call cooperate and make sure that he was erased from the system, and all would be well in the world.

No reason to be concerned.

No reason at all.

.

Being called into the Senior manager’s office the moment you walked into the door the next day made your heart race. You couldn’t get that stranger’s voice out of your head. That ominous threat. A promise, almost, in so few words. Not one to tiptoe like a mouse into what was likely just another disciplinary meeting where they would talk about those tally marks, or points, or whatever it was they were being called today, you lifted your chin high and made your way to the door. But before you could knock, it opened, the frame filling with the tallest skeleton monster you’d seen in your life. Well, truly, the only you’d seen in your life. He was lean and in a fashionable grey suit straight out of an Armani advertisement.

“PARDON US, MISS,” he said (shouted?) in a nasally tone. You relaxed a little. Maybe he was just one of the owners coming in to check on things? Then again, that was a really expensive suit. He skirted around you, stride long and purposeful. The ‘us’ was forgotten until the next figure stepped forward, a little less put together and ten times shadier for it. Another skeleton. He was hardly taller than you but broad, kitted out in a poorly buttoned vest, a half-tucked shirt, a loose tie...and a matching blue trenchcoat and fedora that made him look like one of those wannabe gangsters on social media. It was almost...silly.

Except...you were pretty sure there was a bulge under that jacket. Uh...cellphone and wallet maybe? Hopefully? 

White eyelights darted to your name badge and back to your face, the grin on his skull somehow widening. He adjusted his hat, one eyesocket somehow slipping shut. Magic. Weird stuff. “so you’se the lady i talked to yesterday,” he drawled, and you flinched like someone poured a bucket of ice water down your back, half-formed cubes slipping beneath socks to soak the insides of your shoes. Your toes curled. You instinctively rocked back a fraction. There was a strange cheeriness to his demeanor. Like a cellophane veneer. Transparent but enough to deflect further trespass by anyone with a lick of common sense. 

He thrust out a hand, “nice ta meet’cha, darlin’.”

It was rude not to shake a customer’s hand...right? Not that you were ever supposed to meet your customers in person. You plastered on a pained smile of your own and clasped leather-clad bone, and immediately jolted, hand flung back. The skeleton snorted and wriggled his phalanages, revealing the joy buzzer on his palm. 

“whoops. was that a little too shockin’ for ya?” He chuckled. It wasn’t comforting. He took a step forward and you stepped back. Over the skeleton’s shoulder you spotted the senior manager staring back, pale as the cheaply painted walls. He made a vague hand gesture you didn’t quite catch before the skeleton shut the door. “here, i’ll play nice, no more tricks. name’s sans. sans the skeleton.” Reluctantly, you shook his hand again, his name twisting and turning in your misfiring brain. 

Then it rang like a fire station bell.

Wasn’t that the name of—?

That smile was too close, his grip too tight, “no need to look so worried. wuz all just a little misunderstandin’ that we all got sorted out. in fact, i wanna thank ya for bringin’ this whole little situation to light. can’t have none o’ these randomly generated number things callin’ my personal phone.”

“Uh, you’re...welcome, sir?”

“sans. call me sans, darlin’.” He released your palm and tucked his hands into the pockets of his no longer quite as ridiculous seeming trench coat. “i think we’ll be seein’ each other around.” He finally slipped past and followed the other skeleton towards the exit, leaving you standing there, frozen for a solid thirty seconds before you found the strength to push open your manager’s door, not even remembering to knock. He didn’t seem to care. Just stared at you as you wandered over to the stiff, questionably green armchair and sat in it. 

“That...was an experience,” you said after a long beat of silence. “He said his name was...Sans.”

“Sans the skeleton.”

“Like the Sans who made the news—”

“—on suspicion of essentially being a crime boss. Yes.”

“The charges didn’t stick.”

“Money talks. Greased palms make men like him get away with murder.”

“...Am I fired?”

He gave a small shake of the head, “I do not believe that would end well.”

“Did he say something to you?”

He swallowed and motioned to the door, “Please return to your work...and try not to call anymore mobsters while you’re at it.”

“Or you’ll give me tally marks?” Your attempt at humor was paired with a shaky smile. His stare was unamused and flat.

“Performance points.”

“Ah, right, sorry.” You stood up and shuffled out. It was a stiff, uneasy walk to your desk. Everyone was too quiet. Were they...were they staring at you? There was a sense of expectation thick in the air as you sat down in your chair and reached for your headset. Only, there was a card that didn’t belong.

The only thing printed on it was a phone number in blue pen.

**Author's Note:**

> -FIN-
> 
> That's all she wrote!


End file.
